Chapter Four #2
Once outside, Mathias checked his watch and walked to the main road, where he hailed a taxi. He gave the driver the address and sat back as the car sped through streets that were both strange and familiar.
“ We’ll skip the Denon Wing for now. The crowds should start thinning out by late afternoon.
The Raft of the Medusa is what you really want to see there, as well as some of the Italian Renaissance paintings, but let’s leave that for last.” Elise led Rayan into the main lobby of the museum, which was teeming with people.
“I thought we’d start with Near Eastern and Egyptian Antiquities then head upstairs to the decorative art galleries. ”
Rayan looked up at the giant glass pyramid that rose above their heads, each pane a perfect diamond.
“Does that sound good, or is there something specific you’d like to see?” she asked.
“That sounds fine.”
“Great.” Elise turned to him with a smile. “It’s so wonderful you could come.”
Rayan returned the smile with half the woman’s enthusiasm, and even that felt forced. “How long did you work here?”
Elise’s eyes sparkled. “Six years. I started right after finishing my PhD. I spent some time interning and then managed to elbow my way into a paid position. Working here was always a dream of mine.” She directed him toward the entrance to the Richelieu Wing. “How about you?”
Rayan looked at her quizzically.
“What was your childhood dream?” she asked. “The thing you always wanted to do?”
She said it so flippantly, as though one’s purpose was cultivated from childhood.
He’d had vague fantasies of future vocations when he was younger, usually tied to whatever he was obsessed with at the time—planes, languages, ancient civilizations.
Those all disappeared when simple necessities in his life became fantasies of their own—a house to live in, food to eat.
“I didn’t really have one,” he said.
“No? But you must have been interested in something.”
“Not particularly.”
They made their way into an ornate gallery filled with glass cases displaying a collection of pots and statues and stone tablets.
“This is the Galerie d’Angoulême,” Elise explained, lowering her voice so it didn’t carry in the hushed space. “The pieces here are all oriental antiquities, mostly from Mesopotamia and the Levant. Some of the works in this collection are among the oldest in the museum.”
Rayan walked over to a white limestone slab standing in the middle of the room.
“That’s a stela depicting Baal, the storm god,” Elisa said. “It was found in the ancient city of Ugarit, which is modern-day Syria.”
It was hard to believe the weathered etchings had existed centuries ago. Compared to that, the span of a human life was a blip. Rayan moved to a display featuring a series of unglazed water jugs.
“So, are you in finance?” she asked.
He glanced at Elise. “What?”
“Mathias mentioned something about working in private lending back in Canada.”
Right. Private lending.
“Did you two work together?”
“Something like that.”
“How did you get into it?”
Rayan attempted an indifferent shrug. “Just one of those things you fall into. Practical, pays the bills.”
“It’s hard to imagine Mathias in a job like that. Customer service isn’t exactly his strong suit. He once refused a client’s request because she asked too many questions.”
Now, that sounds familiar.
They continued through the gallery, the click of Elise’s heels on the patterned marble tiles echoing around the room.
“Is that what you do now?” she asked.
“Not anymore. I work at the center for new migrants.”
Elise’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Do you have anything to do with the camp?”
“We run a service office out there.”
She shook her head. “It’s a disgrace, the way the government’s handled things. I can’t even imagine what it’s like, leaving your homeland, everything you know. And then to end up in a place like that.”
They stopped by a carved stone relief mounted to the wall. In the center of the band, a regal figure stood in a chariot pulled by three servants.
“Do you miss it? Canada?” Elise asked.
“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally. “Tell me about this one.”
As Elise launched into an explanation charting the reign of King Xerxes the Great, Rayan’s mind returned to Quebec.
There were things he missed about Montreal—the familiarity of it more than anything.
In France, things still had a way of surprising him—customs or words that seemed alien.
Montreal tied him to memories of his brother and mother.
Being away meant those memories had started to fade, and a part of him was afraid that one day, he’d lose the link completely.
They left the gallery and crossed to the neighboring wing, where the Egyptian antiquities were laid out across multiple rooms.
“It’s strange to be back, if I’m honest,” Elise said as they walked past a row of upright sarcophagi.
“I always imagined being on the museum acquisition committee one day, making decisions about funding for exhibits and which pieces to procure. But if I think about it, the chances were so slim. My old colleague, who showed us the shards earlier, he started three years before me, and he’s still in the same department with the same job.
Meanwhile, in the eighteen months I’ve worked for Mathias, I’ve selected and purchased more pieces than I did during my entire time here. ”
In the corner of the room, a clay burial casket lay open inside a glass cabinet. The outside of the coffin was adorned with rows of stacked hieroglyphs, a story told in tiny sketches of gods, people, and animals.
Rayan stepped closer to peer at the sequence of panels. “You’re happy you took the job, then?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, but I think moving to Calais turned out to be a good thing for me. It was a relief to get away from Paris.”
“Why?”
A deep blush bloomed across her cheeks. “It’s actually incredibly embarrassing,” she said hurriedly. “I’d rather not to talk about it.”
So, there’s something even she won’t talk about.
“What about you? Are you happy you made the move to France?”
He took in her expectant expression. “I guess.”
“But your family—don’t you miss them?”
Rayan felt a familiar clench in his stomach. Every day.
“There’s no one to miss.”
Elise’s forehead furrowed. “I’m sorry. Your parents have passed?”
It was theoretically true. His father might as well be dead, for all he cared.
Rayan had almost forgotten they still inhabited the same world, breathed the same air.
Rayan had been horrified when he found out Mathias had gone to see him.
That broken house, the old man’s trembling hands, those terrible memories.
He’d never wanted Mathias to witness the extent of his shame.
Elise seemed to interpret his silence as assent. “Were they from Quebec?”
“Only my father.”
“And your mother?”
“Lebanon.”
She nodded as if that somehow clarified things. “Is that why you help out at the center?”
“Because I inherited a sense of displacement?”
Elise flushed again. “No, I didn’t mean—”
There were parallels, to be sure. It was part of why he’d been drawn to the work. He couldn’t ignore the call of recognition and the hope that he might be able to help someone else’s story end differently.
“How did your mother end up in Canada?” she asked.
He’d been too young to remember the specifics, though she had told him a carefully crafted version, shrouded in romance.
His father, a better man, a hero even—a former soldier turned peacekeeper who’d fallen in love with an orphaned girl in a foreign land and spirited her away to a better life.
As an adult, Rayan held a far more cynical view of his father’s intentions.
Perhaps the man had thought a broken horse would be easier to tame.
But who knew? Maybe he’d loved her once—and she him.
Maybe he had been a hero—until he returned home to find himself nothing but an ordinary man, and the drink had taken whatever was left.
Suddenly, Rayan was tired of looking at the remnants of cultures long past. “You said the decorative arts collection was a favorite of yours. I’d like to go there.”
Elise’s face brightened. “Of course. Let’s head upstairs.”